


tea, blankets, and a damnable stubborn attitude

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Begrudging Acceptance of Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jonathan Sims POV, M/M, Sickfic, basically Martin infiltrates Jon's house to take care of him while he's sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 17:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18392591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: “Are youreallygonna stay here and pester Jon all evening?”“I’m notpesteringhim,” Martin retorted, sounding vehement if notbusy going through the cupboards.“I’m heating up soup.”“Oh, you might as well make him another cup of tea while you’re at it.”“Oh, good idea.”Jon shot Tim a withering look.Companion piece toinfinite.Same story, told from Jon's POV.





	tea, blankets, and a damnable stubborn attitude

**Author's Note:**

> set somewhere towards the end of s1

Something was buzzing.

No. Wait. _Wait._  There was something he was focused on. So certain that there was an answer on the periphery, one and one finally able to be put together to find their elusive two, and Jon was right on the edge of it. The man who had been murdered had been staying in the countryside prior to his death, and the apparent _thing_ that had been stalking him– however far-fetched the idea of _hook-handed_ was– had to have had a means of escape, assuming the thing hadn’t just _vanished_ off into thin air…

What _was_ that noise? It was grating on his nerves. Something so asinine as that, when he was certain… certain… hmm. It really had set his nerve endings alight, the slow crawl of anxiety beneath his skin. Jon looked around, and then made a quick decision: perhaps he’d finish this investigation from the safety of the Institute, where there were four walls surrounding him. Standing here, with the hot, acrid air buffeting his hair, was suddenly almost as urgent as the buzzing in his skull.

He just needed to get to the Institute. That was all that mattered. He could figure the rest out there, just as he always did. He just needed to get inside.

The buzzing reached a crescendo. It was making him _dizzy._ He had to reach out a hand to brace against a tree, except the tree was barely a tree as it was peppered with holes, and small, silvery things, crawling in and out and onto him. The buzzing was worse, arching into pain; Jon pulled his hand back with a hiss, and then a moan, teeth clenched together and aching with a muted panic and rising terror.

And then, he was prying his eyes open to find he was in his own flat, in his own bed, having squirmed into a tangled, sweaty mess between the blankets. A nightmare. … right. Some of the aspects had been real, though, manifesting into his dreams, like the throbbing in his head, and his shirt clinging to his back with sweat, and the aching in his spine as he tried to ease himself into a more comfortable position while vaguely still feeling, frankly, horrible.

And the buzzing. Something was still buzzing.

His conscious mind told him it was his phone even before his unconscious one had started to rationalize it. He was already reaching for it from the bedside table before he really knew what he was reaching for, and then it took three, uncoordinated tries to close his fingers around the thing to answer the incoming call.

His voice cracked when he spoke, and a tiny shudder settled deep into his spine to shake him from inside out. “H‘lo?” Less than articulate, but his eyelids were drooping again.

_“… Jon?”_

At the voice, Jon heaved a sigh. It sounded lacklustre to his own ears. He cleared his throat, and tried for more sophisticated speech. “Martin,” he greeted, and instead of rolling to his back, drew in on himself and the blankets insofar as much as he could whilst speaking on the phone. “What did you need now…?”

There was silence from the other end of the line, stretching to a point where Jon was about to open his mouth and complain for the disruption when Martin finally spoke, curious, _“were you sleeping?”_

“I do that, now and again.” _I’d like to be doing that now._

 _“But not–”_ A tiny scuffle of movement, with an even more tinny _“Sasha–!”_ in the background before–

 _“Jonathan Sims,”_ Sasha said, and her voice was _bright._ _“Oversleeping. That’s it, I know they said 2012 was supposed to be the end, but this… this right here is the_ true _sign of doomsday.”_

“I beg your pardon?”

_“You have no idea what time it is, do you?”_

… he was starting to have a sinking feeling that he did _not._ Jon dragged his phone away from his ear and tried to squint at the teeny numbers situated at the top of the display.

 _“It’s gone half nine, Jon,”_ Sasha’s voice announced from the call, and he gave up feeling for his glasses.

Nine-thirty. That was… he’d slept through _multiple_ alarms, and however many times they must have automatically gone to snooze. He felt a little woozy. He hadn’t overslept since his days in university, and even then, that had been few and far in between.

“… apologies,” he said quietly. So much for going back to sleep. How had he _slept_ so long? “I’ll be in as soon as possible–”

 _“You_ can _take a sick day, Jon. I think we can handle the Institute for one day.”_

“I’m…” _not sick,_ so it went in his head. But perhaps Sasha had a point. The lingering effects of the nightmare were lingering _too_ long, the aches and pains and pounding in his head. The rasp in his voice and being sweaty and chilled at the same time.

 _“We were getting worried until Martin brought it up,”_ Sasha continued. _“Although we_ were _still a little worried when you didn’t pick up the other calls.”_

“I’m…” How many times had they called? “Sorry, how did Martin know I was sick?”

_“Because Martin pays extra attention to the three of us?”_

_“Cheers, can you put me back on now?”_

_“Honestly, you_ were _dragging yesterday, Jon.”_ Tim’s voice, even further away then Martin’s. Jon had to strain to catch the words. _“I’ve started sifting through today’s files already, anything that gets done’ll be ready for recording when you get back.”_

 _“Yeah, we’re on it, Jon,”_ Sasha said. _“Elias already said if you were sick to stay home.”_

“… very well.”

_“I’m gonna give you back to Martin. Get better.”_

“Thanks, Sasha.”

 _“So, yeah,”_ Martin continued, speaking into the phone again. _“We’ll handle things here. You need anything?”_

“No, I can handle myself.”

_“Know you can, but it sucks being–”_

Jon tried to hide the yawn, he really, _honestly_ did. But he didn’t _quite_ manage it, or manage to even turn away from the phone enough.

Silence, for a moment, from the other end, and then a stifled laugh. Probably. It just sounded like a puff of static into the phone, but easily recognizable from the soft amusement in Martin’s tone a second later. _“Sucks being sick by yourself. Get some sleep, I won’t keep you.”_

“Apologies,” he repeated, just as faint. “Talk later.”

_“Sure thing.”_

He didn’t bother to check anything further on his phone once Martin had disconnected. Just dropped the thing back on the stand and curled back into the blankets. Perhaps he’d thank Sasha for her suggestion. A sick day was what the doctor would have ordered. Besides, going anywhere like this sounded _horrendous._ Back to sleep it was, then, instead.

He only afforded himself another moment to pull his sweat-damp shirt off to toss towards the chair, and then he was out as his head hit the pillow.

  


It had… been awhile since he’d felt so poorly.

Martin, being crass if not _honest,_ had been correct in his assessment earlier: being sick, and alone, without anyone to keep company or tend, in a word… _sucked._ Jon was independent enough that he was fine with silence and solitude, thank you, but… there was just _something_ about being ill that seemed to turn all of it on its head.

Jon _felt_ like he’d been turned on his head. Vertigo had been spinning the room since he’d gotten out of bed for the toilet, and decided to make himself a soothing cup of tea. He’d even taken his cold medication, after finding the unopened box, pushed to the far back of his bathroom drawer. But the tea was seeming to take ages to steep, and he was forced to brace both hands against the countertop to keep himself upright. All of that aside, he was fairly certain he’d gotten himself a fever, because the hot-cold regime had cycled him back to currently freezing, and he was shivering slightly from not having replaced his earlier shirt.

The last time he had been this bad off had… yes, been university as well. Those things happened, during your school days. Jon assumed. They had happened to him; certainly they had happened to others as well. There had been no one to offer care to him, then, either, but at least his roommate had been helpful enough to provide him a bin to avoid being sick on their floor, and would throw a blanket over him if he fell asleep shivering.

Small comforts.

Jon puffed out a short, aching breath, and leaned to brace his forearms on the counter instead.

The busy work didn't necessarily take so long, ten minutes if the kitchen clock was still working properly, but he felt _faint_ after it all. Forgoing sugar for a teaspoon and some of honey, and then shuffling his way to the sofa to finally sit down.

Utterly miserable.

The blanket from the back of the couch was pulled over his shoulders, and chest, insofar as much he could manage currently. His legs were tucked, carefully, beneath himself, and the mug of tea held secure by bracing it atop his knee. There. As settled as he was going to get for now.

He took a sip of tea. Looked towards the blank TV and thought perhaps he ought to have turned on whatever was on at this time. The news, likely. Even Coronation Street– no, the silence was largely preferable to _that,_ even. Still…

Another mouthful of tea. Jon slumped a little further down in the sofa.

… salt water. He ought to mix a solution to gargle with for the sore throat. And fetch another clean shirt. Perhaps a dehumidifier for the sinuses… did he even _have_ a dehumidifier…?

… this was dreadful.

Unbidden, the thoughts of the daily to do list filtered through his head. Work was a forlorn hope now, but lunchtime was fast approaching and dinner would be right around the corner. His overnight stays at the Institute, combined with the growing threat of danger towards the four of them– and him in particular, perhaps, meant he had quite a low supply of food in the flat. That asides, he’d barely managed to make _tea,_ how was he meant to make anything of substance? Today was laundry day as well; a fortnight’s worth of clothes he’d been putting off for the tedium and hesitance of it all. When it rained, it poured.

Jon stifled a cough into his shoulder, and a tiny groan into his mug of tea.

  


Something was knocking.

For a moment, Jon forgot where he was. Then it came back; he was in his flat, near to catch his death of fever, and having fallen asleep on the sofa for it.

But something _was_ knocking.

He jerked upright. Nearly pitched himself over the arm of the couch and threw out a hand to catch the back of it, and then _stopped,_ holding his breath. Calm. Collected. It was _nothing._ His neighbors from the next door flats had occasionally come by for one reason or another. Much more likely that than _Jane Prentiss…_

His hand shook, and he dug his nails into the upholstery.

“… Jon? It’s me.” Tim’s voice.

Jon sagged into the couch, and then wanted to scream. Of course it was Tim. He’d been the one to text him to stop by, but… was it that late already?

Instead of screaming, he’d settle for answering the door. He nearly staggered into the TV stand when he made his way around the table. Slowly. He’d answer the door _slowly._

It _was_ Tim at his doorstep… with Martin in tow.

“Oh, there you– Jesus, Jon, you look, uh… not great,” Tim greeted.

“Thanks–” Jon started, but his voice came out at barely a _rasp,_ and he quickly turned his head to cough.

“You’ve been like this all day?” Martin stepped around Tim. “You didn’t sound so bad on the phone.”

He was still having trouble catching his breath. Jon waved a hand in dismissal instead– _don’t start your coddling, Martin–_ and then turned properly away to cough violently into his arm. His lungs were _burning._ He really hadn’t been this worse earlier, but, well, if it _was_ evening already…

“Shit.” The curse sounded oddly out of place from Martin’s lips. “Get him some water.”

“Yeah.” Tim brushed past him before Jon could open his mouth to try and protest, and then Martin had a hand at his shoulder and was urging him back towards the couch. Jon was a bit helpless, only feeling a muted sense of dismay at the sudden merge of his work and personal lives as the others moved about his flat. Martin had closed the door behind him, but now Jon was half expecting _Sasha_ to pop up from nowhere to administer her own brand of care as well.

She didn’t appear, although Tim did again, with a glass of water. Despite his annoyance at the intrusion– the… depth of it now, at least– Jon took it gratefully. He couldn’t complain out loud. He didn’t have the breath for it.

Tim looked slightly concerned. Martin, overly so.

Eventually, Jon was able to speak. “Well, now that I’ve been forced to share the location of my home with both of you…” He still couldn’t bring his voice above a whisper, but it was his own kind of joke nonetheless. He set the glass aside, and slumped further into the cushions than he may have previously allowed himself. “Tim?”

“Yeah, I brought ‘em.” He shifted through his bag. “Don’t know what you expect to do, really, like this, but they’re here,” he said, procuring a small stack of manila folders.

Martin made a tiny noise, and then a louder one as he started to speak again. “Wait, you brought him _cases?_ That’s why you were coming?”

“He asked me to. What am I going to say, no?”

“In my defense,” Jon interrupted dryly, “I wasn’t quite so bad off this morning.” It wasn’t… _totally_ a lie. He had hoped to catch up on work as a means of something to do. The inactivity of illness made him feel _worse_ by default, so he had texted Tim to bring by whatever he managed to research over at the Institute today. Probably useless, now, but… he supposed it was there if he found the strength.

“You need rest, Jon, not more work. That's _why_ you took off today.”

“Which reminds me, why are you here again?” Jon asked, turning to Martin.

“Oh! Well.” He held up the plastic bag that he seemed to forget was hooked around his arm. “Sasha ordered in for lunch, and figured you wouldn't have anything, and since she knew Tim was coming, she got some soup for you.”

Jon's eyes sunk to the bag held aloft, the faintest shape of a cylindrical container visible through the plastic. His stomach rumbled for a moment, appreciatively, and he huffed softly to mask that particular eagerness. “And _you_ brought it because…?”

“Because he wanted to come, anyway,” Tim said, “and wouldn't take no for an answer. So we split a cab. Sasha sent the soup, but there was no need for all of us to come. There wasn't even a need for _two_ of us… not that it isn't great to see you, as always, Jon, you know.”

Now he couldn't help but roll his eyes. “Yes.” He was going to have to haul himself back off the sofa if he were going to heat that soup up, and frankly it sounded good enough to go ahead and try. And maybe it would ease some of their worry if he was clearly capable himself…

He'd barely sat up before Martin was fussing over him again. “What are you doing?”

“The soup _is_ for eating, yes?” Martin's hand was on his shoulder, keeping him in place, and he had to resist from shaking it off. “I'm not really keen on it cold, Martin.”

“Don’t be stupid, I’ll heat it up. Where’s your microwave?”

“Martin, really–”

But he’d already gone, mostly, and there was no hope of catching up to him in this state. So, perhaps devastatingly… he let him go.

“You won’t get rid of him now,” Tim remarked, and looked far too amused in the half light cast by the singular lit lamp in the room.

 _That’s very much what I’m afraid of._ “You could take him with you, you know,” he half mouthed.

Tim turned his head towards the kitchen. “Martin, I’ve got an appointment. If you’re splitting with me again, we gotta go.”

“I’ll stay.”

The final nail in the coffin. Jon couldn’t withhold another muffled noise of discontent.

“Are you _really_ gonna stay here and pester Jon all evening?”

“I’m not _pestering_ him,” Martin retorted, sounding vehement if not busy _going through the cupboards._ “I’m heating up soup.”

“Oh, you might as well make him another cup of tea while you’re at it.”

“Oh, good idea.”

Jon shot Tim a withering look. Weren’t they meant to be _supporting_ him in his time of need? He supposed they were, in a… way. Still.

“As much as I’d love to say I’d like to stay and see how this works out, I really don’t.” Tim held up his hands. “So I’m gonna go. See you both tomorrow, or well, you, at least, Martin,” he said, raising his voice. “Take good care of him.” Then, looking back at Jon, “try not to strangle each other, will you? He’s just trying to help.”

 _I’m going to strangle you,_ he wanted to say, but those were too many words and the _effort…_ it sounded astounding. And, anyway, strangling Tim probably _wouldn’t_ make him feel any better at the moment, anyway. Maybe tomorrow.

Instead, he settled on, “thanks, Tim,” and watched him leave with only a tiny amount of dismay.

So…

So.

Despite what Martin had said about _rest,_ there was only so much half slouching on the couch could offer. Still, it would be silly to go back to bed when Martin was so intently preparing his warmed over dinner, so… he’d visit the bathroom in the meantime, and top off another dose of that cold medication. That much he _could_ do by himself. And then perhaps Martin would be satisfied once he was settled with medication and liquids and some warm food, and he would take his leave as well.

… somehow, he didn’t see that in the foreseeable future, but one could hope.

Martin poked his head around the corner. “What are you doing?”

“Bathroom.” He gestured towards the front. “Lock up, will you?”

“Oh, right. Definitely. You okay on your own?”

“I’m always on my own.” Reflexive. Instinctive. And _true,_ as he’d been previously lamenting in the hours prior. He didn’t wait for Martin for protest the statement, just continued on his way down the hall. He wasn’t in the mood to protest semantics today.

He didn’t know if it was better or worse, really, the longer that he was awake, but he managed the path from and back to the sofa without much trouble, even collecting a fresh shirt from the closet to wrestle on, and Martin was hovering in the kitchen doorway when he did drag himself back through.

“You wanna eat in there, or the table–” Jon started past him into the kitchen. “– alright, table it is.” He hesitated before all but thunking the stack of old newspapers onto the second chair. “You’ve got a fever, don’t you?”

“Probably.”

“Did you take your temperature?”

He shook his head, shifting the bowl of soup closer after Martin set it down.

“You really should. Where’s your thermometer?”

“I…” Thermometer… His hand paused on the spoon. Did he even have one of _those?_ He’d never been particularly susceptible to illness. Worrying about a dehumidifier earlier seemed ludicrous compared to this.

Predictably, perhaps, his silence had Martin frowning again. “You don’t have a thermometer, do you?”

“It’s seeming unlikely,” he said, and finally raised the spoon to his mouth. His hands were still shaking a little. They hadn’t really stopped since the knocking on the door, although Jon expected it was more from the perceived chill in the air than it was from any lingering fear. The soup was a little bland, less taste than usual, but then he was sick. It _was_ warm, though, soothing to his aching throat and a splash of heat to the cold. He was starving.

“Ummm… oh! First aid kit?”

Jon looked up. “What? Er– I believe so?” It was hard to remember where it would be, though, although he was certain it was in a _logical_ place. The part of his brain responsible for logic seemed to be taking the day off as well, and focusing was making his head throb worse.

“Good, there’ll be disposable thermometers in there,” Martin said. Jon was barely listening. “Be able to get a number that way then, later.”

What he planned on doing, was eating this soup, politely but sternly telling Martin to _go home,_ and then dropping back into bed and sleeping straight until morning. By then, certainly all of this would be cleared up enough to return to the Institute, and then… back to worse things than a fever, he supposed.

“Jon?”

He dropped the spoon into the bowl, making himself jump. How long had he just been thinking? It had felt like seconds, but Martin was leaning over him and he felt woozy looking up at him.

“… what?”

“You’re zoning out a little… you should probably go back to sleep.”

It didn’t sound like a bad idea, and he’d just(?) been thinking about it himself. So he’d just opened his mouth to reply when an abrupt touch of a palm to his forehead wrenched a surprised, pained noise from his lips instead. It was simple, really… Martin’s hand on his forehead… but he still _flinched._ A tiny noise, and the chair creaking in protest as his back slammed into the worn wood behind him.

Martin jerked his hand back as though he’d been bitten. He even took a step back. “Sorry! I– I, uh, sorry.”

… the whole thing was an overreaction.

He’d just been startled was all. With good reason. “What are you doing?” he finally muttered, _complained,_ and gave up on any more soup or tea. Most of the soup itself was gone, regardless. He barely remembered tucking in.

“Your temperature… it’s just, it’s still too soon since you’ve eaten, so… yeah. Sorry, I should’ve asked–”

“I’m _tired,_ Martin,” he interrupted, and carefully pushed himself to his feet. “Go home.” He’d had food. He’d had more liquids. He’d taken medicine, before dinner. Martin had had his round at playing doctor; now the man could go, and Jon could go back to _sleep._

Martin mumbled something, but Jon was too focused on the trudge back to his bedroom. He could put the lock on the door when he left, and, since he was so intent on Jon taking it easy, wouldn’t mind in seeing himself out.

He didn’t bother to close the bedroom door behind him, or even to pull the blankets back from earlier. He just allowed himself to sag onto the mattress, and sleep.

  


He was facing the wrong way when he woke up, curled horizontal in the middle of the mattress instead of vertical as he should have been. The pillows were still at the head of the bed. His feet were dangling off the side of the mattress.

… he’d fallen asleep like _this?_

There was a blanket settled around him haphazard, one he grabbed to stagger to his feet with. He needed water. His throat was burning. He didn’t know what time it was, but not bloody well long enough for this _fever_ to have gone. He was frustrated. And still… _impossibly…_ tired. Worn down. He… needed a drink.

The tap in the bathroom was ice cold at full blast. He didn’t think before cupping his hands under the stream, and although it made him shiver, he was _too tired_ to care. His body was too hot, ergo, cold water. Except maybe a little _too_ cold, he thought, with a small cough… and then a slightly more forceful one, and Jon had to slump against the counter to keep his balance while he all but hacked his lungs into whatever old raglan he’d managed to pull from the closet.

It must have triggered his gag reflex, at some point. He froze on a breath of air as the water burned its way back up, and then he was whirling for the toilet, half tripping over the blanket still draped around him. It was vile in ways that he’d forgotten. Perhaps this was the true manner of how he would die, spitting up the last remains of partially digested soup and tea and ice water.

He wasn’t usually so prone to dramatics, but… _well._

“You alright?”

The question was far louder than it should have been, in the otherwise quiet broken only by his breathing and the still running tap. He cringed, and then swallowed down another retch to send a watery-eyed glare towards Martin.

He was supposed to have left. He was supposed to have gone _home._ Jon enjoyed his privacy; they _knew_ this, Martin _especially_ knew this, he’d snapped at him before (he was going to snap at him again, in a moment. He recognized that, but knew he wouldn’t be able to stop it, anyway. Not now) but here he was, at least looking a little uncertain standing in the doorway of his boss’s bathroom, watching said boss collapsed in a half kneel at the toilet, tears of actual exertion and at least a little bit of pain tracking his cheeks, making himself sick over tending a fever, and looking at his absolute fucking worst–

“Why are you _here?”_ Jon demanded, but felt the severity of it was lost behind _being_ at his absolute worst and his voice, hoarse, throat burning and raw from vomit and stomach acid. He was simultaneously mortified and exhausted.

“I’m not gonna leave while you’re like this. Yell at me all you like,” Martin said. He still looked uncertain. Sounded a little uncertain, too, but… determined. His obstinate face. “I’ll get you more tea. But if you’re not back in bed before it’s ready, I _will_ be helping you back to your room. So just… yeah. Prepare for that.” And he left the doorway, footsteps retreating down the hall.

Jon groaned, resting his cheek on the toilet seat.

… he was affording him a moment, however. Vaguely, he understood Martin’s _interest_ in preparing tea for what it was. And that was… kind. And meant Jon absolutely had to get himself off the bathroom floor and back into bed before that tea was done.

It was a bit of a rough go, but he managed. He was still dizzy, but not so much nauseated as had come and gone in the seconds following the coughing spell. That, at least, was a positive sign. He was still miserable, though. He stumbled back to the bedroom without washing his hands.

He thought Martin looked relieved to see him sitting back in bed, but he didn't say anything about it, and neither did Jon. He was still simmering with faint annoyance and shame and that _fever,_ so he drank his tea in silence and ignored how judgmental that silence seemed to be.

Martin would get over it.

If he was taking for granted the fact that Martin _always_ got over it… he just couldn't afford any more crises of conscience today.

  


It was late, the next time he woke. He never opened his bedroom blinds as a matter of he didn't need to see out and no one needed to see in, but the sunlight straining past them from earlier was absent. The room was dark. So it had to be late.

Waking up with the lingering feeling of fever had become something of a regularity. It probably didn’t bode well for his intention to return to work quietly. He found he didn’t care much, at this point. It was terrible to think and felt even more terrible to believe, but… he had been so tired, for quite some time now.

He did seem a little more… conscious of himself, this time, though. Maybe that was indicative of the healing process. Probably, he should get some water, and see about something light to eat. At the very least check the time for when he was due his next dose of pills… that much was easy enough. For the first time since probably taking them off last night, Jon finally hooked his glasses from the table to slip on. He clumsily pushed them up the bridge of his nose, and flicked his phone to life. Just past twelve thirty. For all the sleeping he was doing, the day was… certainly dragging.

And still, nothing to do except sleep until he was comfortable enough in tackling those folders Tim had brought over…

As if by the thought of the earlier interruption by his colleagues, Jon was suddenly, vaguely aware of noise from the other room. Quiet, not even to disturb his sleep, but… talking, maybe? Or music? _The TV,_ his mind supplied. Which meant…

It wasn’t at all a surprise when Jon shuffled to the sitting room, and found Martin, sitting in the dark, watching telly. It wasn’t even annoyance, really, just… resignation.

He just breathed out a tiny sigh, and slumped against the doorway. “Martin.”

Martin jumped in the soft glow of the television, and sat up on the sofa. “Jon, you’re– wait, the TV didn’t wake you, did it? I can turn it off?”

Jon shook his head. Probably, he ought to have been annoyed at Martin, sitting on his sofa, watching his TV, a forgotten cup of what had most definitely been tea sat on the table in front of him. He’d made himself at home since he’d gotten here. So he definitely had the right to be annoyed.

But the blanket was gone from the back of the sofa, and it was just at that moment that Jon realized it was the one that had been draped around his shoulders when he'd awoken in bed… the one that _still_ was around his shoulders. He pulled it a little closer, grasping a fistful of the fabric so it didn’t slide off.

“I thought I told you to go home.”

“Home?” Martin repeated. He laughed, a little. “What home?”

Jon opened his mouth to respond. Then closed it again. Sometimes, he let it slip his mind that Martin hadn’t been home in months now. If he had, it was to collect whatever leftover food or work or clothes. Jon was becoming familiar with the motions himself, of late. “Back to the Institute,” he finished. It was lacking.

Martin shrugged. “You keep saying that, but that’s bull. D’you _honestly_ expect me to believe you want to be here all alone when you’re sick? I know you’re not the most social person, Jon, hell, _not_ a social person at all, but I wasn’t going to just _leave.”_

… no. Martin wasn’t that type of person.

“Listen, I know we’re not… we’re just co-workers, right? That’s how you see us, all of us, which is… _fine,”_ he said, and sounded begrudging, “but I think you’re my friend. You _are_ my friend, just like Sasha and Tim, and I’d do the same thing for Sasha and Tim, and– and you, of course, so.” Obstinate and hesitant in turns. Jon, vaguely, wished he could make out the expression on his face, but the TV didn’t throw off enough light and he wasn’t close enough to see. “So be mad at me all you like, but like I told you earlier, I’m staying. And… And, well, it’s almost one, and I _really_ don’t want to go back to the Institute by myself now, so, uh.” He gave another smaller, more nervous laugh. “Here I am.”

… here he was.

The resignation was starting to take on an edge of exasperation, and… maybe it was even a little bit _fond._ Best not to think too much about it.

Jon relinquished the section of wall that was keeping him upright, and started across the room. As the distance between them cleared, he could make out the apprehension on Martin’s face as he stopped next to the sofa… and then Jon turned his attention to making certain he didn’t _flop_ quite so obviously when he sank onto the couch next to him.

“What are we watching?” he asked, tucking the blanket around himself.

“We… u–uh.” Martin stammered, and then looked between the television and Jon. “Uh, Doctor W–”

“Oh God.”

“It’s the only thing I have saved on my phone!” Martin protested. “And your TV needs an upgrade, it took me ages to get it to cast.”

“My TV is fine,” he muttered. It wasn’t even an old television. And he was fairly certain it was the mirroring device that had connectivity issues, but he only ever used it on the off-chance he needed it for work, so he wasn’t about to have that conversation.

“Yeah, sure. Listen, it’s either this or, well, The Conjuring’s on, and… _no._ Who watches that at one in the morning? Oh, Sky’s got Games of Thrones, though.”

He glanced sideways. “Which season?”

“Four?”

“No.”

“Oh, God, Jon.”

“I’ll catch up eventually,” he muttered.

“Yeah, sure. Umm, Challenge Jackpot, but–”

“No,” he interrupted. “Just… watch your reruns.” He shifted a little further down the sofa, stifling a yawn. He doubted he’d stay here long, anyway. Long enough to work himself up to the walk back to bed.

“Alright… you need anything? Something to drink?”

“No.”

“Do you _want_ anything?” Martin fired back, a little critical, and Jon laughed, barely a breath of air.

“No, Martin.”

“Right, tell me if you do.”

He nodded, once, twice, solemn and dry. If Martin read the sarcasm in it, he didn’t say.

Jon directed his gaze to the TV, letting most of his attention wander.

  


“Mm…?” He made a tiny, aborted noise at movement. Something near his face, his hair… not quite jarring enough to pull him back to full consciousness, but just enough to nudge him towards it.

“Sorry, just… taking your glasses.”

Oh, so that made sense. “Hm.” Another noncommental noise. There was still the feeling of warmth, and the press of something soft and worn beneath his cheek. And the sensation of eyes on him lingered, but it was… good. Nice. Comforting.

Jon drifted.

  


The television was still on when he opened his eyes, but the difference was that the room was bathed in sunlight. Insofar as much sunlight as his old flat could get, but… It was morning. Past the time he should have been to work, but he supposed that was still moot.

It wasn’t until he started to sit up that he realized he hadn’t just fallen asleep on his old sofa, as he was inclined to do. He’d fallen asleep on _Martin,_ who was _still here,_ and Jon had been using his shoulder as a pillow.

Right. Well. That was… slightly awkward.

It wasn’t until he’d sat up– carefully, testing his body’s limitations from illness– that he realized Martin was asleep, too. Still sat up, arms folded across his stomach and chin tucked to his chest. Looking… _utterly_ uncomfortable, even in sleep. Clearly, he’d refused to attempt waking Jon to persuade him to move. Or, if he had, Jon couldn’t say he remembered it at all.

He ignored the tiny pang of guilt stabbing into his stomach. What was done was done. Martin could have woken him, but he hadn’t. Jon would just take care to make certain nothing of the sort happened again. He’d already put Martin out enough in the last fifteen odd hours _without_ pinning the man to his sofa.

It did bring up the question, however, of if he should wake Martin now, or just… let him sleep.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Maybe he was alerted by the lack of weight at his shoulder, or maybe Jon had jostled him upon sitting up, but Martin was blinking himself awake a few seconds later without any decision necessary on Jon’s behalf.

“Ow, fuck…” Clarity, then. “Oh, morning. How…” He cleared his throat, bracing a foot on the table to push himself up straight. “How are you feeling?”

“Slightly more alive.” On reflex, he reached to fix his glasses. A habit he had never quite been able to break, but they were missing.

“Oh, here.” Martin twisted, collecting something from the end of the sofa. Jon’s glasses. “I kind of took them off you? After you fell asleep. Didn’t want the frames bent or anything…”

Jon took them. Followed it up with a soft, “thank you.” And then followed _that_ up with, “You could have woken me.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’ve had worse.” Still, Jon thought the both of them winced as Martin stretched, and the vertebrae in his spine cracked. “Uhh, well, I _have_ had worse…”

“Right.” He braced a hand against the couch. “We’re late for work. _You’re_ late for work,” he amended, sensing the man about to protest. “If I can’t go in again, we need the three of you at least.”

Martin was _looking_ at him. Oddly, really, but Jon had the feeling he was being _analyzed._ Hell, he probably was.

And then, the proof: Martin laughed, raising a hand to rub at his eyes. “Guess you’re feeling better, then.” He dropped his hands back into his lap. “I’ll go. Can I stop by tonight, though…? Just to– to check on you.”

“Are you going to show up even if I say ‘no?’” It was a joke, in its own way, as well.

Martin smiled. At least he had the proper mind to _look_ sheepish. “Maybe?” It was phrased like a question. They both knew the answer.

Jon sighed, but… acquiesced, with a shrug. That was dangerous. But he almost… _wanted_ Martin to come back, just for now. “As you will, then.” He didn’t move from the couch when Martin did, just watched the man stretch and frown and duck off to the loo before grabbing his coat. It was only when Martin had his hand on the door that Jon moved, shifted off the couch in preparation to lock up after Martin had gone.

Until then… “Thank you, Martin.” That particular bit of gratitude wasn’t for being mindful of his glasses, but for tea, for a blanket, for that damnable stubborn attitude. The sincerity was a bit awkward on his tongue, still tasting of morning cotton and the faint taste of tea from the night before.

Martin blinked, looking at him again. He looked… surprised. That was fair. But then he grinned, goofy, still bleary, with his hair tousled, likely sleep-deprived. “Yeah, anytime. Not that I hope you get sick again anytime, soon, I mean, or well, _anytime._ But yeah.” He stood there for a moment longer, and then shoved his hands in his pockets. “Right. Call if you want me to bring anything tonight.”

Jon nodded, giving his word. Then Martin was on his way, pulling out his phone after he’d waved over his shoulder to Jon.

Jon shivered from the winter air, and closed the door.

A pot of tea, then. It sounded like a balm for his soul now. And perhaps, when Martin stopped by, Jon would– only by accident, of _course–_ make enough for the two of them. A display of gratitude. He had never been good with those kinds of words.

Still wrapped in his blanket, he started for the kitchen.

**Author's Note:**

> at least s1 was set during 2016 so Jon wasn't _that_ far behind in GoT ~~honestly I just pulled up tv guide uk to see what's on british tv at 12-2, saw got and thought _guilty pleasure_~~ anyway I love a sick and moody Jon being more sick and moody but also _needy_ but being even more uncertain ~~moody~~ because he's not USED to feeling that way, and especially not with Martin
> 
> hello who wants 7k of sickfic set in s1?


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